Escape from Azkaban
by redvelvetcakeforever
Summary: Post-Vol War 2, Lucius Malfoy languishes in Azkaban dreaming of escape. What would happen to him if he managed it? Can he be redeemed or will he remain a villain for the rest of his life?
1. Chapter 1

1.

Cold. He was always cold here. He couldn't recall if it had been so cold the last time, but last time his mind had been occupied by… other thoughts. He shivered. The Dementors might have been gone, but his stay was no less uncomfortable. The food was the same, the guards were the same, and his clothing - such as he had been given - was the same as it ever was. He realized that he felt the same despair even without the presence of sinister, emotion-sucking creatures.

So, all things considered, there was little more that could go wrong.

With nothing more to do than think and relive the past, it was no wonder that many of the prisoners had begun to go mad. He might count himself among them, but how does one know if one is going mad? Would that not belie the definition of madness? Could there be some kind of test he could perform on himself to find out how mad he was? He heard his own harsh croak of laughter, echoing loudly in the stone cell, and figured he shouldn't allow his mind to travel down that path any further.

He huddled on his pallet bed, pulling his knees in against his chest and wrapping the thin Azkaban standard blanket about his increasingly bony shoulders. After his first foray in prison, his robes at home had hung on him loosely, but his frame was only mildly leaner than before. Now, his tailored shirts and neatly hemmed trousers would be comically big on his skeletal form. If he ever returned home to wear them. He knew he hadn't regained any weight while the Dark Lord resided in his home. How could he eat with that - that _presence_ in his personal space? And now that he had been returned to prison, where they were fed meagrely only twice a day, he continued to shrink. He would soon be able to count his ribs, which on the upside, would be a novel way to spend his time.

He refused to dwell on what he had left behind at home. A wife, frustrated by how his misdeeds had left him with few options and no way out, resentful of how he had brought her and their son with him. A son, disappointed and disgusted with the father he had once worshipped. He considered the Mark, now fading on his forearm. The boy had one to match it. If he could go back in time, and live it all over again, he would have done anything to prevent his son from being Marked.

A fit of coughing took him, and he could do nothing more than curl in on himself and ride it out. Most of the prisoners were sick. What with the ambient temperature, the lingering dampness, and the close quarters, it was unavoidable. And what healer in their right mind would be willing to travel to Azkaban to treat the sad remains of the Dark Lord's Death Eater army?

His health was failing and he feared that he would soon be too sick and weak to do anything but lie on his pallet. He couldn't let it come to that. He still had pride. He refused to die inside the walls of this terrible place. He stared, unseeing, at the stone wall in front of him and thought of escape.

The prisoners were permitted to stretch their legs for an hour a day in the loosely named "exercise yard" in the middle of the building. While he was still healthy enough to move about on his own, he took full advantage of that hour to walk and meditate on escape. He had no tools, no utensils, nothing readily available to use to tunnel out. He had little opportunity to acquire anything, since all prisoners were chained and manacled when not in their cells. They took no chances here.

He was ruminating on this problem as he walked the perimeter of the yard, his chains making a rhythmic jingling that was almost pleasant to the ear. He frowned at the earth in front of his feet. That's when he saw it - shining in the brief smattering of sunlight that had leaked through the constant cloud cover. A broken chain link. Metal. His eyes lit up with the fire of determination.

He glanced surreptitiously at the other current occupants of the yard. 4 guards and 11 other prisoners, none of them paying specific attention to him. He kept moving as before, dropping quickly to a knee over the link and tucking it hastily into his palm. He smoothly rose and continued walking, taking another look around. No one seemed to have noticed what he had done.

After he had been returned to his cell, he immediately crouched on his pallet and examined his new treasure. It was an ordinary chain link, probably from someone else's manacled and chained hands and feet, less than 10cm long. It appeared to have been bent nearly straight by sheer force, which was impressive on its own merit, but more impressive was the fact that it hadn't been detected by any of the charms the guards used to locate contraband items or forbidden communication which the prisoners might leave in the yard. He wasn't about to investigate his good luck any further, knowing that time was not on his side.

He needed to find a weak point. The best weak point would be near what passed for a window in his cell. Water often found its way in there, so he suspected that he could probably find his way out in the same area. He got down on all fours and used one end of the chain link to meticulously prod the cracks between the stones, beginning at the junction of the floor and the wall below the window.

It took him countless days to find a weak spot. He had no idea how much time had actually passed, but he did know that his cough was getting worse. He worked at enlarging the cracks in the mortar around one stone - the only stone he had located in the outside wall that had significant weak points. The winter storms on one side of the wall, joining forces with his pitiful efforts on the other side were slowly loosening the stone from its position.

More time passed. He paid it no mind. His fingernails became worn down as he became impatient with his lack of progress using the chain link and began scraping at the gathering dust at the edges of the stone using his fingers until they bled. He worked long into the night and was awake at the first hint of grey light each morning.

The first time the stone moved, he thought it was his imagination. He thought his mind was finally beginning to crack. Then he pushed on it again and the rock slid against its neighbors with a jarringly loud sound. He froze, convinced that a guard must have heard it, but after a heart-poundingly anxious 2 minute wait, he allowed himself to relax for the first time in many, many days.

The wind howled that night, and he couldn't have been more grateful. He redoubled his efforts, attacking the wall with his precious bit of metal, enlarging the gaps between the rocks and pushing with all of his pitiful might. Confident that no one would be able to distinguish the sounds of the rock sliding out from the storm battering the island, he worked until the clouds began to clear and the first light of morning stole out from beneath them.

His cough was now so severe, he could hardly draw breath without succumbing to a coughing fit. He forced himself to choke down the food that appeared in a plate on the floor of his cell and gulped down his entire vessel of water. If he kept working, he would be able to attempt a break tonight. For the moment, though, he would sleep.

He tossed and turned fitfully, unable to catch more than a few minutes of restless sleep before being startled awake by his own coughing. With a sigh, he gave up on rest, and returned to his task. The faster he was able to free the stone, the easier it would be to make his escape under cover of darkness that night.

By the time darkness fell, he knew he had a raging fever and was well on his way to delirium, but he could not stop, obsessed with the idea of escape. He carved and dug with the link and his fingers until they were raw and bleeding. At last, the stone was mobile enough for him to ease it from its place with minimal sound. He pushed and wiggled it until it dropped out of sight, leaving him a window of space that would not have been sufficient had he not lost so much weight. At his current size, he would just fit.

He peered out. The lightning of the night's storm lit up the roiling seas some distance below him and he quailed momentarily. But no, he could _not_ die here. He refused to die a prisoner. If he could control but one aspect of his destiny, he positively refused to die in Azkaban. It would be better to drown in the raging sea than in his dank cell. He nodded to himself. Yes, whatever he would find out there would be better than being trapped in here.

With that, he took as deep a breath as he could manage and slipped through the hole, into the darkness below.

The black water closed over his head and he was momentarily disoriented. The water flung him about mercilessly. He felt his legs glance off some sharp rocks that must have been near the island. Involuntarily, he let some of his air go in a flurry of bubbles. Fortunately, he could re-orient himself by following the trail of bubbles toward the surface, where he gasped for another breath of air.

He knew he couldn't tread water for long, so he scanned the shore of the island he had just left, hoping there would be a crevasse or cove he could take refuge in. There was none. The island prison of Azkaban was surrounded by nearly sheer cliffs that descended sharply into the sea with no actual shoreline in sight.

 _This is it,_ he thought. _This is how Lucius Malfoy leaves this world. Drowning like a rat._

He was about to give up when he was swept against a solid piece of flotsam. He struck his head on whatever it was and saw stars, but he managed to reach an arm out and grab onto it. Regaining his senses, he saw that it was an enormous chunk of driftwood. He thanked whatever deity happened to be looking out for him at that moment, and pulled himself onto it, wrapping his limbs securely around it, hoping against all odds to wash up on a shore where the wizarding population was sparse.

He regretted not bringing his blanket with him so he could tie himself to the wood, but it was too late now. He would just have to hang on and hope that his paltry strength outlasted the storm. The roar of the sea and wind swept around him and tossed him madly about, pulling him under one moment and throwing him high atop the waves the next. He slipped in and out of consciousness almost with the rhythm of the sea, his feverish delirium mixing with his lack of sleep to produce a horrifying half-dream landscape - a hellish world of water and lightning.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Several miles away and several hours later, in a small fishing village on the coast of Ireland, a woman awoke from the most restful sleep she'd had in ages. The light filtering through the curtain was brighter than it had been for the past week, and she knew the storms had passed. She stretched luxuriously, like a satisfied cat, savoring the feel of her warm blankets and the soft bed beneath her. A sound disrupted her cosy reverie. The alarm.

She sighed, rolled toward the sound, and turned it off. The clock radio was ancient, but it did the job, it's bright numbers proclaiming the hour to be 7:00am. Now that the weather had improved, it was time to decorate the pub's storefront for the holidays, as her father before her had done. Full-time pub owner by the age of 35. That hadn't been on her list of goals, but she couldn't complain.

She pulled a jumper over her head and drew the curtain open to take a look at the sea. Her little flat was directly over the pub, which faced the shore where the fishermen would moor their boats every evening. The sun was creeping above the watery horizon and the few clouds that were left streaked across the sky like wisps of silk. The sea was calm and bright as a mirror.

As the sun continued its lazy journey toward the apex of the sky, the woman pulled out a fresh roll of velvety red ribbon and a cardboard box full of plastic holly and ivy sprigs and brass bells. Her assistant would arrive with the ladder soon, and she wanted to have finished putting together a garland by the time he arrived. She had spread everything out on one of the long tables outside the pub. No one would be sitting out there with a pint for another eight months or so, but they came in handy during the brief warm season and they were definitely handy when it came time to hang the Christmas decorations.

She had gone no further in her preparations when she heard shouts coming from the dock. Turning around and shielding her eyes from the sun, she saw a group of fishermen carrying what at first appeared to be a bundle of rags. As they approached the main road, she dropped the pair of scissors she had been using. That was no bundle of rags - it was a man! She ran toward them.

"Oi there!" She called out, "Is he breathing?"

"Dunno, Viona," one of the men answered, "he's cold as death. Set 'im down here," he gestured to the table next to the one with the Christmas decorations spread out on it.

She elbowed her way through the wall of fishermen and took stock of what lay before her. He looked like a drowned rat, long dirty hair, scruffy beard, and whatever he had been wearing was tattered beyond recognition. She took hold of his wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak and erratic. Now that she was near enough to him, she could hear him taking shallow, struggling breaths, and she wished she knew where her old stethoscope had gone.

"He's alive, but only just," she declared to the waiting group. "Let's take him inside and I'll search out some towels and call the doctor."

Their town was too small for a hospital, but they did have a resident doctor who had an office and would occasionally perform house calls. One of the quaint aspects of village life. This was the modern age, though, and he did carry a cellular phone. She left the fishermen to take care of wrapping their foundling in towels and rang the doctor, who had already been on one house call that morning. He would be on his way shortly, though, he told her.

True to his word, he pulled up in front of the pub 15 minutes later. The fishermen had already left to continue their own work, but Viona remained by the side of the unconscious man. The doctor went quickly to work, examining, poking and prodding as was his custom.

"He's in a bad way," he proclaimed, his examination complete. "He's got severe pneumonia, hypothermia, and a pretty bad case of malnutrition. They said he just washed up, did he?"

"Yeah, old Connell spotted 'im on the rocks just as his boat were leaving the cape. They thought he was dead at first. Where do you think he came from?"

"Nowhere I'd want to be, that's for certain," the doctor showed her the man's right hand. "Look at his fingernails - they're practically gone! He must have dug his way out of somewhere. I wouldn't fancy to think of what kind of place would make a man so desperate to get away."

"He had no identification and his clothing - what I could make of it - seemed institutional," she mused, "Do you think he's a mental patient or a prisoner?"

"There aren't any prisons or mental wards near this area, certainly not near the sea," he sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand, "I haven't the faintest idea where he might have come from, but one thing is clear, he needs someplace to stay and someone to nurse him. I'm loathe to move him across the county to the hospital, I'm not at all sure he would make it."

She smiled grimly, "I know what you're going to ask me, and the answer is yes."

"Are you sure? It's convenient for me, since your flat is already equipped to handle the care of an invalid, but it hasn't been that long since your da passed."

"It's been at least a year," she said softly. "I'll be alright. Didn't I train for nursing? I'd meant to make a living out of it. Let's find out if I'm made of the right stuff."

They arranged him comfortably in the second upstairs bedroom - her father's old room - and Viona returned to the task of constructing and hanging the Christmas garland. She tried to ignore the feeling of trepidation that assailed her when she thought of how quickly she had agreed to nurse a stranger in her home; a stranger who might be mad, or criminal, or both.

The sounds came to him first. A faint humming, footsteps on a squeaky wooden floor, soft voices, the clatter of silverware and porcelain, a radio. He attempted to move and found that he was snugly wrapped in blankets and resting on a soft cushiony surface. His arms were free, but he couldn't move his left arm very well. It seemed to be attached to something that twinged painfully when he pulled at it.

He attempted to open his eyes, but flinched at the unfamiliar brightness. He groaned. Footsteps approached and a hand gently smoothed over his brow while another hand grasped his wrist at the pulse point. Unaccustomed to the touch, he flinched and pulled away, his eyes blinking open, taking in his surroundings.

"Calm down, you'll pull out your IV," a female voice spoke at his side.

He stared at the woman. He'd never seen her before. Nor had he ever been in a room like the one he currently occupied. The walls were a pristine white, broken up by framed photos and paintings whose contents did not move. Muggle artwork.

"No - don't touch me!" The sound of his own voice was shockingly hoarse and weak. He tried to recall the last time he had really used it.

"Please calm down," the woman pleaded, holding fast to his wrist, immobilizing it. "We're going to help you, but you must lay still."

He regarded her hand with the same sort of glare he would have reserved for an impudent house elf. Then, he noticed the tape and what appeared to be a liquid filled tube running from the crook of his arm to a bag of some kind, suspended on a hook above the bed.

"What in Merlin's name is that?" He cried.

"It's your IV," she told him slowly, as though speaking to a child, "have you never had one before?"

"I've never seen one before!" He raised his voice. This was a bad move, as it reinvigorated his cough.

As he tried to regain composure, a white-haired man poked his head in the room.

"Everything alright?" He queried.

"It's fine, but we might need that tranquilizer after all," Viona gave him a meaningful glance.

"Right you are," the man nodded and left.

Lucius tried to wrench his arm free of her persistent hold, "Get your filthy Muggle hands off me!"

"My what?" Viona glared at him, affronted. Though she didn't understand the term "Muggle" she was sure it wasn't good.

"Get this - this _thing_ out of my arm," he raged, "What are you doing to me? You have no right to keep me here! I demand to be released at once!"

"Dr. Gleeson!" Viona shouted over her shoulder. "Hurry along with that tranquilizer!"

"Here it is -" the old man rushed back into the room with a haste that belied his age. He thrust a syringe into a valve at the top of the IV bag and pushed the plunger down with finality.

Dr. Gleeson and Viona watched the medication take effect, and the frail man in the bed drifted into a calm and dreamless sleep. His onlookers released a collective sigh of relief.

"Are you certain there's not an institution nearby?" Viona turned to the doctor, putting her hands on her hips. "That was quite a performance, don't you think?"

"Well, maybe there's a few private hospitals, but inland, not on the coast. He definitely has a high and mighty way about 'im. Maybe he came from a wealthy family, though if that's the case, he's a far cry from wealth, now. I'll leave you with a bottle of this stuff and a few syringes, just in case."

She nodded and they left the room, closing the door behind them. The doctor explained how to measure out the correct dosage of the tranquilizer and left her with a short course of antibiotics for her guest's pneumonia.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

The next time he awoke, he was alone, and the peculiar "IV" was gone, in its place was a bandage. His mouth was dry. He looked around for the Muggle woman, but could see and hear no sign of another person nearby. She, or perhaps the old man, had considerately left a glass of water on the bedside table. He struggled upright and snatched the glass, draining it.

He all at once became aware of another pressing need. He needed a loo, and fast. Taking another glance about the room, he noticed a chamber pot resting conspicuously against a leg of the chair next to the bed. He snorted. _Not bloody likely_.

Maybe he could stand. He tentatively placed a foot on the floor and tried to put weight on it. The knee buckled and he was glad that most of him was still on the bed. He cleared his throat.

"Is someone there? Woman, are you there?" His voice was still hoarse, but stronger than it had been.

No answer. He tried again, "Muggle woman, I require assistance," he waited. Still nothing.

He sighed. He was on his own.

Downstairs in the pub, Viona was cleaning pint glasses and chatting with a few of the afternoon regulars. She had stood behind that dark-stained bar for as many years as she could remember. Her father loved the pub. It had been part of his family for generations and it had been his goal for her to take ownership after him. She had not always felt the same way, but now she couldn't imagine a different life.

The old regulars were retired fishermen who had known her since she was a child. They drifted in for a pint, or for a chat, but never for a smoke. Viona had made the indoor space smoke-free when she had returned home to care for her father after he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. More than half a lifetime spent inhaling the secondhand smoke of pipes and cigarettes had taken its toll on him.

Viona would not be next. Not after she had successfully quit smoking; not after she had nearly finished nursing school. Especially not after watching her father suffer and die from the disease. She would not be next.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud thump and clatter from above. One white-haired old man squinted at her.

"What on earth are you hiding upstairs, Vi? Sounds like an angry stallion," he opined.

She smiled politely, "Excuse me a moment."

She set the pint glass and rag down and shouted down the open cellar door to her assistant who had been cataloguing their inventory, "Dennis, can you mind the bar for me a minute?"

She didn't wait for his answer before rushing up the stairs to her flat. She found her unfortunate guest on the floor of the bedroom, trying to get up. His legs were wobbly and weak as a newborn deer and he struggled, muttering darkly under his breath. With the air of someone who had done it before, she lifted him to his feet and dumped him unceremoniously in the chair next to the bed. He glared at her.

"How dare you manhandle me-" he began.

She cut him off, "What were you doing out of bed? I step away for only a moment to tend the bar and you're making trouble."

"I was not making trouble," he protested petulantly, "I-I need the loo."

She hid a smile at the way his pale skin turned a delicate shade of pink. He would have worn it better if he were clean, but she and Dr. Gleeson hadn't been able to give him more than just a sponge bath while he was unconscious.

"Alright then, give me your arm," she reached out for him. He regarded her hand with a sneer of disgust, but accepted her help with ill grace.

Once they made their way to the lavatory, she offered to help him do...whatever he needed to do, and was somewhat relieved when he batted her hands away and shut himself inside, slamming the door firmly in her face.

"A simple 'no, thank you' would have worked just as well," she called through the door. As an afterthought she added, "Do you want to take a bath? I can draw the water for you, if you like."

A muffled, "Yes," was all the response she received.

"You're welcome, you ruddy bastard," she muttered under her breath as she walked down the hall.

She had filled the tub part of the way when she heard his voice.

"Woman! Come help me!"

"Would it kill you to say 'please' once in a while?" She groused, taking his arm and leading his wobbly steps to the bathroom. "And my name's Viona. I'll respond to that a great deal better than 'woman.'"

He made a noncommittal sound, and she suspected he was trying to ignore her presence. _Good luck, your highness._

She led him into the bathroom and closed them both inside. He backed away from her until the backs of his knees hit the bench next to the tub, causing him to sit down hard, staring up at her in wide-eyed indignation.

"Just what do you think you're doing? Get out! I won't be subjected to your filthy hands on my person any longer than absolutely necessary. Out, I said!" He pointed imperiously at the door behind her.

"Now, you listen here," she squared her shoulders and gave him her best glare, "I don't like it any more than you do, but you're in no condition to help yourself in this situation. As much as I'm not eager to see your skinny white arse, I'm less enthused about seeing a dead man in my bathroom when I come back from work. So _try_ not to be difficult, and this won't take too long."

"NO," he intoned. "I positively refuse. I've suffered enough indignities today; I'll manage," he paused and then deliberately enunciated, "Thank. You."

"You can't be serious," she scoffed, "Look at you. Can't even stand on your own, how're you going to get in and out of the tub without cracking your fool head open?"

"I'll manage," he repeated, "You aren't going to undress me like some kind of child."

"I wouldn't have to if you'd stop acting like one!"

"Decency, that's what your kind lacks. No decency at all," he growled. "The gall of you to suggest that I would let a total stranger undress me _by hand_. Astounding! I would be surprised if I didn't already know about your depravity."

"What on earth are you on about? What do you mean 'my kind'? The Irish? Ya English bastard, you can keep your rotten prejudices to yourself, alright? I don't care what you think of me, I'm trying to help you!"

"I don't want your help!" He roared. "I'd rather have been left to die on the beach!"

She pinched her lips together and took a deep breath through her nostrils. Looking him up and down, she nodded, "I see. It's useless to try to talk sense to you right now. I'll take you back to bed."

She reached out for his arm but he shoved it away. She blinked at him in surprise.

"I don't want to go back to bed," he snarled, "Stop treating me like a child! I'm going to take a bath, as you suggested."

He folded his arms and gave her the best Malfoy glare he could summon.

"I don't need help taking a bath, not from you, not from anyone, do you understand me? I'd sooner die than accept charity from a pathetic Muggle like you. Get. Out," his voice had gone deadly soft and it gave her an unexpected chill down her spine.

"Fine," she said, her voice shaking with fear or anger, she wasn't sure which took precedence.

She backed slowly out of the room and ran back down the stairs. Dennis looked up at her as she clattered down the last few steps. He grinned at her.

"How's the drowned rat?"

The rest of the pub denizens looked at her with keen interest. Of course the whole town knew about the found man and where he was staying. Viona tried to smile back at her assistant.

"Oh," she said vaguely, "he's fine. Taking a bath at last," she wrinkled her nose expressively.

A smattering of quiet laughter floated around the room and Viona's smile became more natural. She went back to work behind the bar, operating almost on autopilot as she considered her strange guest. She still didn't know his name, and his behavior was odd, to say the least.

He vacillated between a madman and an aristocrat, between ranting in harsh tones that rattled her senses and rounder, posh English speech that clashed with the atmosphere in her homely little flat. Most concerning was the fact that despite his lack of strength or mobility, he really had frightened her. Where had he come from and who exactly was she sharing her flat with?


	4. Chapter 4

4.

The pub was especially busy that evening. The whole town seemed to have come out to see how Viona was doing and hear all about her guest. The fishermen who had found him stopped by for a couple of pints and to regale the assembled crowd with the tale - with added embellishments, of course. Viona couldn't recall a great storm rocking the seas that morning, nor did she remember throwing herself dramatically over the half-drowned man and sobbing.

She pointed this out to the fishermen, who stared down into their pint glasses sheepishly and didn't meet her eye.

"Well, nooooo, but it's not very exciting to tell it as it happened, especially with all these people here waiting to hear a good story," one of the fishermen explained.

"True," she winked at him good naturedly as she handed him his second pint.

She got so caught up with the activity in the pub that she completely forgot about the man in her bathroom. The crowd was so noisy and boisterous - as befitted the Christmas season - she and Dennis had to practically force them out the door at the end of the evening. They were both yawning widely as they wiped down the tables and mopped the floor. Dennis begged to go home, telling Viona they could take care of the dirty glasses in the morning. She gratefully agreed, and locked up after him.

It was only as she trudged wearily up the stairs that she remembered where she had left her guest. With an exclamation of shock, she used the last of the day's energy to take the stairs two at a time.

The flat was silent. She checked the second bedroom, hoping he had managed to drag himself back to bed, but it was empty. The bathroom light was still on, but no sound issued forth. She knocked.

"Erm, are you alright in there?" She tried the knob. Luckily it was unlocked, so she cautiously opened it. She gasped.

He was sitting against the wall next to the tub, his arms wrapped around his knees, shivering. His hair was wet; leaving dripping trails down his back and arms. He had managed to remove his clothing without incident, the set of pyjamas she and Dr. Gleeson had wrestled him into were folded on the bench. But from there, she wasn't sure exactly what had happened. The floor was covered in water, spotted with bright red blood, and arrayed with a minefield of broken glass. The entire room reeked of perfume.

As much of a gobshite as he'd been during his waking hours thus far, she hated how pathetic he looked now. Glad she was still wearing her shoes, she picked her way across and crouched in front of him, her eyes watering from the smell.

"Jesus, man, what's happened?" She reached out, but stopped short of actually touching him, unsure of his current state of mind. "Where are you hurt?"

"You left me. I couldn't get out of the bath on my own. I broke your perfume bottles," he stated blandly.

"I can see that. I'm sorry I didn't come back, but I'm here now. It doesn't matter about the perfume, let's get out of here so I can assess your damage."

He looked at her as though he had just noticed that she was there. He blinked in confusion, "Why are you doing this? What do you get out of it? I have nothing…" he trailed off, staring at nothing in particular.

She frowned at him, "What kind of question is that?" She moved closer and tried to examine his feet for injury without touching him. After a moment, she sighed, "OK, as much as I enjoy a flexibility challenge late at night, I'm knackered, and I'm sure you are, too. Did you step on glass?"

He met her eye and nodded mutely.

"OK, can you stand at all? Maybe on the parts of your feet that don't have glass in them, ey? Come on now," she helped him to his feet, wrapped a towel about his shoulders, and practically carried him to the kitchen.

He sat dejectedly at the kitchen table, his feet propped in an adjacent chair, and watched Viona rush about, putting the kettle on, jogging back to her room to retrieve a small bag with a zipper, searching through one of the drawers for a narrow metal tube-like object. His mind belatedly supplied the name for this Muggle object. A flashlight.

She rummaged through the little bag and came up with a pair of tweezers. She carefully lifted his feet from the chair, sat down in it, and set them on her lap. He was starting to return to himself enough to try halfheartedly to pull his feet away from her, but she was having none of that.

"Sit still," she shot him a glare, "I can do this now, and you'll be comfortable tonight, or I can bundle you off to bed and Gleeson can do it tomorrow morning. Whatever you prefer."

He clenched his jaw.

"Fine," he ground out, "Get it over with."

She set to her task, using the flashlight to find slivers of glass, and the tweezers to extract them. It was a fairly painless procedure; if he could ignore the Muggle woman's presence, it almost felt like one of the house elves was performing some kind of rough cleaning charm on his skin. He closed his eyes.

Viona cleared her throat, "You never told me your name. Here you are naked as the day you were born, sitting in my kitchen and I don't know your name," she glanced at him briefly and smiled.

He considered the merits of this for a significant period of time and she almost thought he was going to ignore her completely, but at last he said, "Lucius. My name is Lucius."

She allowed herself a small grin. He volunteered information to her with hardly a fight at all. That had to be some kind of victory. Maybe she was cut out for nursing after all. He was a trial by fire, and she'd never so much as dipped a toe into the roiling waters of actual medical practice.

"How do you do, Lucius," was all she said, risking another glance at him. "I think I've finished digging the glass out of your feet; are you hurt anywhere else?"

 _So many places._ Aloud, he said, "No, I… I fell getting out of the tub; mostly just bruises everywhere else. Breaking the first perfume bottle was an accident; the rest I broke on purpose," he paused and struggled for words, "I… apologize."

The apology felt strange in his mouth, and he knew that it had sounded just as odd. Viona didn't seem to quite know how to take it. She just nodded and rose, replacing his feet in the seat of the chair she had vacated.

"Normally, I'd offer you hot whiskey, but I'm deadly tired, so I'll just mix you up a packet of Lemsip instead, if that's alright."

He nodded. He had no idea what Lemsip was, though he was roughly familiar with Muggle whiskey. Perhaps they were similar? She set a steaming mug in front of him and he took a careful taste. Nope. Not like whiskey at all. He coughed.

"Maybe I'll add some sugar to that," she took the mug back and rummaged through the cabinet.

When the mug was returned to him, he found the flavor decidedly un-delicious, but basically palatable. She made herself a cup of tea and they sat and sipped in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

He spent the next few days mostly eating, sleeping, and pissing. At first, he needed her help with at least two of the three, and she'd had to explain to him the purpose of antibiotics and demonstrate how to take a pill. He still wasn't convinced that these Muggles hadn't just made up half those things she had told him about 'microorganisms,' whatever that was.

"You mean I have to keep taking these? Every day?" He was incredulous.

"Yes, but only until you run out of pills. There are only 5 pills, for God's sake, you'll manage," she was leaning in the doorframe, arms folded, having delivered his lunch to him on a tray along with the pill and a glass of water. "At least you only have to take one pill a day. Some antibiotics have to be taken multiple times per day."

He studied the little white pellet on his palm. It looked innocuous enough. At the very least, the side effects shouldn't cause him to float 4 feet above the ground or have steam pour out of his ears, as wizarding healing potions usually did.

"How do you know if they're working?"

"How could you have lived past infancy without ever taking antibiotics or pills of any kind?" She stared in disbelief, shaking her head, "You know they work because you'll feel better."

He'd been skeptical, but had swallowed the pills each day with hardly any grousing on his part, and requiring very little bribing on Viona's part. To his surprise, the cough had disappeared, and thanks to regular meals, he was starting to gain back some of the weight he had lost through his 2 stints in Azkaban and his stay at Malfoy manor with his hellish houseguest.

Now, he was starting to get bored spending his days and nights in a confined space. Viona spent nearly all of her waking hours downstairs in the pub, leaving him to his own devices for most of the day. It hadn't been so bad when he had still felt as weak and helpless as a baby, sleeping most of the time, but now, with his body on the mend, his mind was restless.

He tossed and turned in his sheets, which were comfortable enough when he was tired, but now felt oppressively smothering. He sat up, impatiently brushing wild strands of hair from his face. _What to do, what to do…_

He could snoop around in her bedroom, but that might require more energy than he currently possessed. Maybe later. He had to get out of the room, though. Too many countless months spent in a 10 square foot cell had made him hungry for a change in scenery.

He climbed out of bed and stretched, feeling his spine crack satisfyingly. He poked his head out the bedroom door and listened for signs of life. Nothing. He made his way into the living room and wandered aimlessly.

It was a small room, by his standards, certainly. Not large enough for the sheer amount of _stuff_ taking up space there. The room housed too many pieces of furniture of differing styles, ranging from over 200 years old and made of heavy oak, to new and some-assembly-required pieces.

Hardly an inch of wall space was visible between the excessive number of Muggle photos clogging the walls. Most were black and white, but he spotted some more recent color photos featuring the current proprietor of the downstairs establishment. In the first one he found, she had been a teenager, but it was unmistakably her. Same features. He saw that her hair used to be brown - and not an attractive brown, either. No wonder she'd dyed it black now.

He studied this section of the wall closely, identifying her baby photo and several lifetime milestones. He noticed that her mother stopped appearing in photos when Viona looked to be no older than a Hogwarts first year. He idly wondered what had happened to her, but didn't think he cared to ask Viona about it when she returned.

Most of the more recent photos with Viona in them also featured a man who had the same jawline and nose, but grey hair. Probably her father. He could hardly bear to look at these photos without thinking of his own child. His son, with whom he couldn't remember having taken any family photos at all beyond the formal portraits they had commissioned each year. Well, each year save for the past 2. He knew that the bedroom he slept in and the bath chair he used were compliments of Viona's father, and that she had taken care of him herself. He wondered if, in a similar situation, Draco would have done the same for him. He rather doubted it.

Thinking he should take his mind off of things he couldn't do anything about, he turned his attention away from the photos on the walls. One cramped corner of the room seemed dedicated to a small collection of musical instruments. Two guitars, an acoustic and a black electric, rested on guitar stands. Behind them he spotted a violin case and a mandolin case. The lowest section on the bookshelf behind the instruments had a variety of children's Celtic fiddling books and a small pile of ribbons and statuettes.

His gaze continued up the bookshelf. Who in Salazar's name was James Patterson? Whoever he was, he had written a vast number of books, and either Viona or her father had been a fan of his work. He wondered if they were any good and shrugging, he picked one at random and flipped through it. How bad could it be?

He flopped gracefully on the couch and drew the curtain back from the window behind him before opening the book to chapter 1.

He kept reading as long as the light held, but when the sun slipped past the point of the roof and started making its way toward the opposite horizon, he had to leave his comfortable spot on the couch and shout down the staircase for Viona to help him turn on the lights in the living room. She clomped up, muttering under her breath about 'spoiled helpless men' and demonstrated how the light switches and lamps worked.

"I'm not going to be upstairs for dinner tonight," she told him. "I don't suppose you can open a tin of soup and heat it or make yourself a cheese toasty."

He stared blankly at her.

"No, I didn't think so," she sighed. "Come on, I'll show you how it's done."

"Why aren't you coming up for dinner?" He heard himself ask before he could think better of it.

"Band practice," she said. "I've begged off for the past week to take care of you, but we have gigs coming up for the holidays. Can't put it off any longer, as you seem improved. Now, look, here's where you'll find the tinned food, in the pantry…" She launched into a detailed lecture on the finer points of warming up tinned soup.

When she went back down to the pub, Lucius wasn't sure he would remember much of her rather too thorough cooking explanation and pseudo-demo, but he wasn't in a hurry to eat. The book he had picked out was actually compelling enough to hold his attention, despite his ignorance of many Muggle devices and customs; the story still made sense.

It held his attention so much that he had barely looked up when Viona rushed in to grab her acoustic and a large black box with a cord and buttons - some kind of Muggle machine. He didn't really want to stop to eat anything, but some time after she had left, he could feel the hunger gnawing at him, so begrudgingly, he set down the book and applied himself to the task of trying to remember what she had told him about the can opener and the stove.

"The stove is old and quare, so see that you don't burn down my house, Lucius!" Was all that he could remember her saying specifically about the stove.

So, perhaps no soup for supper, then. What else was there? He stood in front of the pantry, arm propped on the door and studied the contents. There was bread and marmite, but he didn't know how to use the toaster, and that rickety contraption looked far more likely a culprit to burn a house down than the stove. No marmite on toast.

His stomach growled threateningly. He turned toward the fridge and peered inside. Apples. No cooking required. Milk. He did know how to use the kettle, so he could make tea. Apples and tea. He sighed. Well, it was better than being in Azkaban.

As he was waiting for the kettle to boil, he heard an unfamiliar sound coming from the vicinity of the sink. Music? He investigated cautiously, lamenting, for the 200th time, his lack of a wand. As he got closer, he thought he could recognize one of the voices singing. Viona. They must be rehearsing in the basement, where the hot water boiler was, and the sound was travelling up the pipes. It echoed quite nicely in the bathroom, as well, and he could almost pick out the lyrics, although he didn't know the song.

He felt something inside him unclench and he sighed, whether from relief or from enjoyment of the music, he wasn't sure. He had to admit that modern Muggle music was far superior to its wizarding counterpart. These Muggles could produce such beauty that he could hardly believe they had done it without magic, but maybe the artistry came from the work that they put into it _because_ they had used no magic to create it. An interesting idea. He would have to spend some time mulling it over.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

The week progressed with Viona having band practice nearly every day that week, not that Lucius was paying attention to that kind of thing. He was sure it was merely boredom that spurred him to listen to the sounds of the band through the pipes in the bathroom. For some reason, listening to Viona's voice released some of the tension in his spine, and on those evenings he would linger in the bath, letting himself soak in the unfamiliar, yet affecting melodies until his skin turned pruny.

Soon, it was Christmas Day. He hadn't realized it until he saw Viona that morning when he wandered into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He blinked.

"What are you wearing?" His voice was rough with sleep.

She looked up from her cup and blushed almost as red as the hideous Christmas jumper she had on.

"I-it's Christmas," she explained, "my bandmates and their families are coming round for dinner at the pub today. If you want, you can join us. I know it's not much of a celebration, but it's something. And no one should spend Christmas alone."

He looked away, allowing his hair to fall in a curtain to hide his face. Christmas Day had seemed no different from any other that he had spent here. It had been a long time since he had celebrated it in any recognizable way and he could see no reason to do so this year.

"I… thank you for the offer, but I will remain here," he said softly.

She nodded, "Alright, well, I thought I would offer. Breakfast?"

He shrugged, "If you wish."

The remainder of her morning after making the two of them breakfast was spent in baking cookies. One of her bandmates' wives would be bringing a Christmas pudding, but Viona was a whiz with cookies, and couldn't help showing off a bit. The radio station played holiday appropriate music all day long, and she tried to get into the spirit of it as much as she could.

Or rather, as much as was possible with the melancholy presence of Lucius in the living room. He hadn't said a word since breakfast, and had retired to the living room to read immediately after placing his dishes in the sink. He'd ignored her pointed comment about how _nice_ it was of him to help her with the dishes, and had settled into his place on the couch, picking up his latest Patterson book.

Viona sighed. He had visibly wilted when she told him what day it was, and she'd been overcome with the oddly maternal desire to hug him and feed him sweets. Knowing he would probably respond badly to a hug, she settled on the second option, giving him sweet rolls with his breakfast instead of marmite on toast. It hadn't seemed to cheer him much. He'd sat at the table, grey eyes focused grimly on his plate and studiously ignoring both the cheerful tunes on the radio as well as Viona's valiant attempts at conversation.

And now, somehow, despite the delicious sugary smell wafting from the oven vent and her humming along with the music on the radio, Lucius, without doing anything outright, cast a damper on the day. She poked her head into the living room.

"I'll be going downstairs in a few," she told him, "are you sure you don't want to join us just for a bit? For the food, at least?"

"No," he responded without looking up from his book, " I'm fine."

"Suit yourself," she returned to the kitchen to plate up her baked wares.

When the door closed behind her after she had taken her last plate downstairs, Lucius at last looked up from his reading. He had spent the past 2 hours going over the same paragraph repeatedly. He didn't want to think about why the novel was failing to capture his attention today, but his mind refused to cooperate.

He listened to the pub door open and close several times, and the downstairs filled with the sound of conversation, utensils clattering on plates, laughter and the high voices of excited children. Family. He put his forgotten book down and made his way to the door at the top of the stairs. He paused for a long moment, one hand resting on the doorknob, and then he turned it very slowly, silently. He crept through, leaving it open behind him, and sat on the top stair, daring to go down no further.

Their conversations overlapped in a strangely beautiful cacophony of happiness. Unfamiliar female voices urged their children to finish eating before they got up to play, and he could pick out the male voice that often rose in harmony with Viona's during their band rehearsals.

"Where's your houseguest, Vi?" The voice asked.

"He's upstairs," she replied. "I asked him if he wanted to come down, but he said no."

"Has he even been downstairs since you took 'im in?" A woman's voice chimed in.

"No, I've suggested it, but he doesn't seem keen on leaving the flat," Viona said.

The male voice again, "I'm worried about you having him up there with you, and you all by yourself. You don't know where he came from or who he is, really. And you don't even ask, Vi, for God's sake, he could be a murderer."

"I doubt that, Kev," she laughed, "He's harmless. He can't hardly do anything for himself. I had to teach him how to shave the other day. It was like he'd never used a razor before."

"And that doesn't strike you as odd?" The man again.

"Of course it does, but that doesn't mean he's some kind of murderous lunatic," her voice held an edge now.

"I'm not saying that. I just think you should start asking some questions now that he's out of bed," the man reasoned. "Does he plan to stay up there forever? He'll take advantage of your kindness if you don't put an end to it at some point."

"I can't just turn him out," her voice rose. "And you didn't see what his condition was when he washed up - I can't send him back to wherever he came from. He was practically on death's door, even if he hadn't been half drowned."

"Ok, you two," another female voice interrupted the man before he could finish the first syllable of his response. "That's enough of that. No arguing on Christmas."

They moved on to another topic, but Lucius wasn't interested in hearing about fishing village gossip. He hadn't expected Viona to defend him and it stuck in his throat a bit. He also hadn't known that his presence was causing tension between her and her friends, either, but she wouldn't have mentioned it to him. They didn't converse much.

The sounds downstairs once again drifted into a happy buzz and he was painfully reminded of the Christmas that he and Narcissa had spent with his own parents at Malfoy Manor the year Draco was born. It was the last Christmas that his mother would have before she died that spring following. It was the last year that there were more than 3 people at the manor to celebrate the holiday, and the only one where he could remember the conversation around the dinner table being the kind of merry hum he was listening to now.

Not that their Christmases had been dull afterward, they had all been pleasant memories. Watching Draco open his presents and terrorize the house elves with whatever little weapons he'd been given. Surprising Narcissa with a new bauble or dress robe. The way her pretty eyes would light up and an expression of delight would momentarily replace her normal mask of dignified boredom. Sitting next to the window, with her perched on the arm of his chair, watching the enchanted snowfall on the manor grounds as Draco slept on the floor in front of the tree, clutching his new treasures.

He missed them painfully. He wondered what they were doing at this moment. They must know by now that he had escaped. Perhaps they had been visited by aurors and other magical law enforcement officials. It was probable his home was currently under surveillance, which would put quite a damper on their holiday plans, if his wife and son had decided to stay at the manor. Although, given the events which had transpired there over the past year, it was very unlikely, which meant his ancestral home, where he had spent nearly all of his Christmases in happy quietude with his family, was probably at this moment empty and bare. No fire in the massive fireplaces, or enchanted snow, or house elves scurrying to and fro with food, drink, and sweets. No Narcissa or Draco waiting for him.

His chest ached and he could feel a lump forming in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but he was being choked. His eyes swam. He drew his knees in, wrapping his arms around them, and buried his face in the cave created by his body. A sound startled him and he lifted his head sharply.

Viona stood with her foot on the bottom stair, poised to go up. She froze at the sight of his still form silhouetted by the light coming from her open flat door.

"I was just going up to get my guitar," she blurted. "Are you alright?"

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

She ascended slowly, stopping when she was eye level to him. "Do you want to come down?"

He shook his head and let his hair fall into his face, sure that she would be able to see his discomfiture, but wanting to try and hide it anyway.

"Well, do you want me to help you up? Are you tired?" She made her way to the top of the staircase and paused right next to him.

He nodded and she took his arm, helping him to his feet and guiding him inside. She led him to his bedroom and helped him pull up the blankets. He turned on his side, facing away from her and curled into a ball until only tufts of his hair poked out from under the duvet.

"There's still food, if you're hungry," she said from the doorway, "I can bring you up a plate for later, if you want me to."

"Just go. Leave me in peace," he tried to control his voice, but to his horror, it came out thick and shaky with emotion.

Her heart ached for him. If only he would allow her to just hold his hand and provide some form of comfort and emotional support. How long had it been since someone had done that for him?

But he would never accept that from her, so all she could do was close his door quietly behind her, snag her guitar from the living room and return to her friends downstairs. She wasn't quite able to hide her change in mood from them. Her bandmates knew immediately.

"What's wrong?" Kev stood up when she reemerged from the stairwell.

"Nothing," she waved off his concern, "I'm fine."

"Well, something's happened. Did he try to pick an argument with you again?"

"I just wish there were something I could do for him," she sighed as she pulled her chair away from the table to accommodate her guitar. "The holiday's depressed him. I think he misses his family."

"Why can't he just go back to them, then?" Kev tried to lighten his tone, but he didn't quite succeed.

"I don't know, and I'm not going to press him about it," she rejoined firmly. "He's here now, and we're going to make the best of it until he's ready to talk."

She strummed a few exploratory chords, "What do you want to start with? The classics?"

Their voices, blended in smooth harmonies, floated up through the ceiling and into Lucius' blankets. He couldn't block it out. The melody was familiar - he knew this song, had heard it before. It surprised him that Muggles would share some Christmas carols with the wizarding world, but this carol was very ancient. His mother had sung it to him, and he had hummed it to Draco over his crib.

He had been having success at suppressing the lump in his throat after she had left, but hearing that old tune again was too much. His breath came in shuddering gasps and in his fierce desire to control it, he hardly noticed the choking sobs coming from his throat, or the wetness on his face. It felt like something was breaking inside him and he curled into a tighter ball, pulling the sheets around him like a cocoon. The music wrapped itself inside and around him, filling his ears and mind, and heart. He could taste it, bittersweet on his tongue.

He didn't know if he would ever see his family again, and for the first time, was overcome with a bitter regret for the loss of the happiness he had willingly given up for the sake of the Dark Lord and his vainglorious mission. Had he not so fully bought into what Tom Riddle had sold to him, he might still have Draco and Narcissa. They would be together now, perhaps. Happy and safe.

But had he not arrived here in this Muggle town and stayed with this Muggle woman, and been treated with Muggle medicines, and listened to volumes of Muggle music, he wouldn't know that the pureblood superiority he had been taught as a child was pure fiction. He could almost understand Arthur Weasley's fascination now. They weren't inferior at all.

When he thought of what he and his Death Eater comrades had done to Muggle villages just like this one, his stomach turned. He thought of those things happening here, to Viona or to little old Dr. Gleeson who had obligingly saved his life, and it made his blood run cold. He was ashamed of the fact that he could call to mind none of the faces of the Muggles he had personally tortured; regretted that he could not somehow absolve himself for their painful deaths.

He could turn over a new leaf now, though. He could be better, do better. _Christmas is a time for redemption and forgiveness, after all_.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

He'd been different after Christmas, Viona mused. He'd started doing the dishes for the two of them. Boxing Day morning, he had come to the kitchen with red, puffy eyes, and she suspected he had cried himself to sleep, but she didn't bring it up. They ate in silence, and then, to her surprise, he took her plate and cup to the sink with his and washed their dishes. She smiled at his back and thanked him quietly before heading down to help Dennis take down the pub's garlands.

She'd been equally surprised when he'd done the same thing at supper, and the next morning as well. She didn't make a fuss, though, and had simply thanked him each time. It wasn't until New Year's Eve that he really threw her for a loop. They had been at the breakfast table, eating in silence, as usual when Lucius cleared his throat.

"Is there any way that I can help in the pub today?"

She almost dropped her fork. He looked up and met her eye briefly before returning his attention to his plate.

"Yes, I suppose Dennis and I could use some help," she finally responded. She looked him up and down. "First, though, you'll need something to wear besides pyjamas, and you're going to have to tie your hair back. I don't think anything of my da's'll fit you - you're a lot taller and thinner than he ever was. I'll call Kev. He's more your size."

When he was properly outfitted and hair restrained, Viona took Lucius downstairs to show him the ropes. Dennis was at first intimidated by Lucius' haughty expression, but he was so excited by the novelty of having an underling that he quickly got over his nerves and, much to Lucius's dismay, had chattered away to him as they restocked the shelves, connected fresh kegs, wiped down the counter and tables, and swept and mopped the floors.

He had been apprehensive about being exposed to the general Muggle population of the town, but that evening, the mood in the pub was so celebratory, no one paid him much heed at all. Viona didn't want him taking drink orders on his own, so she instead had him cleaning pint glasses. The little old ladies, the wives of the old fishermen, gathered around the bar where Lucius was working and tittered at him, which he bore with more patience than Viona thought he possessed.

Viona's band would play a small set that night, ending before midnight, though since the fishermen's council had purchased fireworks again this year and would be putting on a display over the sea at the stroke of midnight. Kev, who had showed up early with practically an entire wardrobe of clothing for Lucius, had spent most of the evening sitting at the bar, shooting the other man suspicious glances, but he hadn't actually spoken to him, yet.

Lucius was relieved when it was time for the band to play, and Kev took his place next to Viona, guitar in hand, abandoning for the moment his vigilant surveillance of Viona's tenant, which was what most of the village had come to refer to Lucius as. The older women said it with a wink and a nod, suspecting that a young and attractive woman like Viona wouldn't be single for long when the winds and seas had brought her a handsome stranger.

The band had picked out some rollicking rock numbers for New Year's Eve. They played mostly covers, but would occasionally dust off an original number from their secondary school days. Viona got things started with a high octane 80s glam rock piece which bounced off the walls of the pub. A makeshift dance floor was created spontaneously, when a tipsy group of patrons decided to shift the tables around. Viona didn't mind as long as they didn't break anything.

As the band played through a couple of songs, Lucius felt the tension that had lingered through the evening melt away. He was discovering how much he could do without the aid of magic, and in his current wandless state, that was quite satisfying. What's more, he found that Muggles - or rather, the ones he had met so far, weren't so different from the wizarding folk of his acquaintance. Viona's voice carved a melody through the ambient noise of the pub, Kev's voice undergirding it with easy harmony, and Lucius looked up from his work, his eye drawn irresistibly toward her. She glowed. Her performance belonged on a larger stage than this - she was born for it.

She grinned and looked across the crowded pub, stopping when her eye caught his pale blond hair shining under the light over the bar. Grey eyes met blue and she winked at him. He couldn't help but smile at her. A familiar, yet long absent warmth blossomed in his chest, loosening the permafrost that had started forming there ever since the Dark Lord first came to power. The heaviness that had been growing from the moment he took the Mark was slowly fading away ever since he had awoken in the tiny fishing village, and it was all due to Viona's persistent kindness pushing him to be better, convincing him that he could be different from the person he had been for the past 20 years, or indeed, from whom he had been his entire life.

The band wrapped up by a quarter til midnight and well-lubricated patrons started meandering outside to get a good seat to view the fireworks. After most people had cleared out, Lucius and Viona puttered around behind the bar, wiping up a few spills here and there while Dennis prepared the shelves for round 2, which would commence after the fireworks. Viona grabbed her guitar and amp to take upstairs before the madness resumed. As she passed the bar, she beckoned to Lucius.

"We can watch the fireworks from the living room. No need to freeze outside."

"I'll stay here and finish with this, then," Dennis muttered.

"Of course," Viona grinned at him, "You're the one getting paid for it, after all."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"Anyway, I think that Brianna girl you're always mooning over was hanging about by the door earlier," Viona called over her shoulder, "I'm sure she would be glad to help you."

Lucius followed her up and shut the door behind them. While Viona put her equipment back in its corner, he put the kettle on and pulled a pair of mugs out of the cabinet. By the time she had turned the living room lights off, collapsed on the sofa, kicked her boots off, and pulled the curtains back from the window, he had prepared the tea. He handed her a mug wordlessly and sat on the other side of the couch.

She sighed, "Rest up while we can. That lot isn't finished with the party and won't be for a while yet."

She studied him in the limited light brought in from the window as they sat in the peaceful silence. His hair was coming loose from the hair tie she had leant him, and he had exhaustion written on his every movement. She felt it in her bones, too, but she wasn't recovering from illness.

"Maybe you should go to bed," she suggested gently. "You look beat."

He looked up sharply and shook his head, "I'll be fine. I just need to rest for a few minutes. I've been lazy for too long."

"Ok," she sounded doubtful. "If you're sure. We'll probably be up til sunrise."

He nodded and they returned to drinking their tea in silence, until it was broken by a rowdy cheer from the crowd below. The two of them set their mugs down and turned to investigate what was happening outside. Viona glanced at her watch.

"It's a minute til midnight," she announced.

He failed to grasp the significance of that, but saw that several couples in the crowd below were kissing, with various degrees of enthusiasm. They watched for several beats before Viona leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He looked at her in surprise. She was pink-cheeked and grinning sheepishly.

"For luck in the new year," she said, ducking her head and reaching for her mug of tea again.

He didn't know how to respond, but was saved from having to formulate one, as the first volley of fireworks launched. His heart launched a flurried staccato, and he was sure it was just the shock of the sudden sounds of the explosives and not at all due to Viona's unexpected kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

January fed into February and Lucius was still helping out in the pub and doing dishes at the flat. Viona and her band practiced less frequently, now that the major holidays were over, but each time they did, Lucius would take a long bath so he could listen to the music echo through the pipes. It was now Valentine's Day, and Viona had prepared all week for a bit of a crowd.

She and the band would be playing a few songs, but the majority of the night would go to the DJ. Dennis and Lucius had cleared away some of the tables to make a tiny dance floor- larger than the one they'd had at New Year's, but it couldn't really be considered a real dance floor by most standards. Viona and Dennis had strung some pink and white fairy lights behind the bar and set a single rose in a vase at each table. Lucius had flatly refused to participate in this part of the preparations, claiming that he had a physical aversion to "insipid displays of sentiment."

This time, instead of a guitar, Viona took down her fiddle. For some reason, their audience favored folk or country love songs rather than the rock ballads that Viona preferred to play. She'd been grousing to Lucius about it all week. He agreed with her, not that he would admit that he'd been paying attention to their practice sessions, or that he had carefully observed how she operated the record player, and would play his favorite albums when she was out shopping or with friends.

To her credit, she played the fiddle just as well as the guitar, possibly better. The crowd seemed enthusiastic, which was really all that mattered, and they didn't have to play all night, just a single 30 minute set. Once it was over and the DJ took charge of the night's music, Viona returned to the bar with an almost palpable sense of relief. Kev settled on his normal seat at the middle of the bar.

"That wasn't so bad, Vi," he said, wiping sweat from his brow with a cocktail napkin. "All things considered, it could have been worse. I don't know why you hate fiddlin' so much. You were a rare talent back in the day."

"Back in whose day, Kevin Rogan?" Viona glared at him, "We're not so old as that!"

"I know, and you're still a rare talent," he grinned at her. "I'm the one that's got fat and lazy."

"Ya did," she agreed. "You've always been fiercely lazy, but ever since Sue had your first baby, you've been using the wife and kids as an excuse. We're not old enough to be talking of the good old days."

"We may not be so old, but we're not so young, either. I notice you're still single this year, same as last Valentine's," he shot back.

"Don't start with me, Kev," she warned.

"Maybe if you didn't have a 'tenant'," he made air quotes, "you would have more luck in the dating market."

"Maybe if you'd mind your own business, you'd notice your wife waiting at your elbow for a dance," she gave the woman a tight smile.

Kev stood with an exclamation of apology to his wife. Before leading her to the dance floor, he leaned over the bar and spoke to Viona in a low voice.

"I'm serious though, Vi. I still don't trust him. He definitely doesn't belong here and you can't let him keep living with you indefinitely. We'll talk about this later."

She muttered under her breath, "I'd rather fiddle all night, honestly."

The night carried on in a festive manner and patrons danced away until the wee hours, but eventually the crowd thinned out. The pub was finally nearly empty. The DJ's time was almost up, but before he packed his gear, he sat down for a pint.

"Looks like everyone had a great time. Thanks, Joe," Viona slid him a full glass. "It's on the house."

"Yeah, everyone but you's had a dance," he replied. "Let me put on a song for you."

"No, no, you don't need to do that."

"Oh, come on," he rose and returned to his sound board, "Your man there, he looks like he'd dance with you."

He pointed to Lucius, who simply raised a haughty eyebrow in response to this suggestion.

"Come on," Joe repeated.

Viona and Lucius eyed each other for a long moment. He broke first, setting down the rag he'd been using to wipe down the counter. He offered her his hand.

"Alright, let's dance."

She took his hand and they moved to the dance floor at a dreamlike pace. The song Joe had selected was familiar to her, familiar and lovely. Lucius pulled her close, setting his hand at her waist. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched her and she looked up at him, suddenly shy. The hand that she held was trembling slightly, and he gazed back at her, his grey eyes filled with an inexpressible something; a hesitant desire to give in to whatever they held between them. She could see the muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. He swallowed and spoke softly in a voice only loud enough for her to hear.

"I can't say how long it's been since I danced with anyone. Perhaps years."

"Oh?" Viona said, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt, "You don't dance often, then? Because you're very graceful - I mean, it seems to come naturally to you."

"It was a regular enough occurrence," he responded wryly. "My wife used to drag me to charity balls fairly often, but those days are long gone."

"Y-your wife?" She felt as though a small chip of ice had gotten stuck in her chest. "I didn't know you were married."

"Yes, well, I think a happy family reunion is unlikely after… after all that's happened," his expression darkened.

"I know it's neither the time, nor the place, but if you ever want to talk about it-"

"I don't need to talk about it," his mouth thinned to a sharp line. "It's over. Nothing can be done about it. No 'talking' is ever going to bring back what I threw away."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It doesn't matter," he pulled her closer to him, "Just dance."

So they did. He was a good lead; possibly the best she'd ever danced with, and she'd done a lot of dancing in a lot of bars over the years. Following his lead was effortless and smooth as a hot knife through butter. And touching him now was a world away from the way she'd touched him as she helped him to and from the bathroom during that first week of their acquaintance. Now, he was solid and steady on his feet; now he was the guide, and she followed his lead. Now his arms were stronger and warmer. His fingers left burning paths on her skin and she wondered what they would feel like all over her body.

He spun her out and pulled her back to him. She moved with him easily, just as Narcissa had, without hesitation or false steps. Possibly better than Narcissa, since she didn't know about all that he had done and didn't yet have a reason to resent him. Each time she looked at him with her wide and trusting eyes, what laughingly passed for his conscience pricked him sharply, and yet he chased after those moments. It was what had made him volunteer to help out in the pub in the first place. He found himself thirsty for her approval, her smiles, her quiet little 'thank you's at the breakfast table. Now, he wasn't sure it was enough.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

Several days had passed since Valentine's Day, and the atmosphere had changed between Viona and Lucius. Each moment they spent alone together was thick with tension, each time their eyes met, the moment would stretch a bit longer than necessary. Dennis had noticed it and cautiously asked Viona if anything were wrong, but she assiduously denied that she knew what he was talking about.

A winter storm was blowing in, and the entire village was on alert. The seas had been fairly calm during January, but now, mid-February, they were due for another bout of stormy weather. The pub had been practically empty the whole day; even the old retirees stayed at home, and it didn't take a meteorologist to see that the black clouds were threatening some fierce weather very soon. Viona sent Dennis home early that evening and closed up shop at 6pm, which was no hardship to the few regulars who had stuck it out until the first big raindrops started to fall, just as Viona was telling them to clear out.

Lucius followed her up the stairs, sullenly anticipating another oddly tense meal eaten in silence. He didn't know what was wrong. He had caught himself thinking of her at the most inconvenient times lately. The way she'd been looking at him had to have something to do with it. If he didn't know better, he'd believe she was a witch who had cast some kind of charm on him. Every time their eyes met, he went a bit giddy.

He'd felt this way before, but he couldn't recall exactly when. It had to have been - Hogwarts? His ill-fated tryst with a Hufflepuff half-blood. That was it. She'd been beautiful, and he'd felt that giddy lightheadedness every time she smiled at him. They had met up a few times and shared a sweaty grope in a dark broom closet, but when he'd broached the topic of a possible match between them, his father had shut down that idea immediately. Her blood status being more than could be overcome by her father's excellent family reputation.

That had just been a crush, after all. This was probably no different. But now, his father wasn't here to discourage him. Now, he knew that Muggles weren't the inferior beings he'd been taught they were. Now, he owed a debt to the Muggle world for saving his pathetic life - a life he'd been about to throw away, but Viona and Dr. Gleeson hadn't let him. Viona, whom he would have killed with his own hands had their paths crossed even 6 months earlier.

Now, he thought of how she had looked up at him while they were dancing. Maybe it had been the song, or the lighting, or how tired they both had been, but his blood rushed to all the right places when he remembered how wide and dark her eyes had been, how she had eventually rested her head on his shoulder and then he'd been able to feel how quick and how warm her breath had been. He'd wanted to taste her then. _Sweet Circe, pull yourself together!_

Viona had turned on the kitchen light and put the kettle on. She looked back at Lucius, who had stopped in the middle of the dark living room, seemingly lost in thought. She sighed. Perhaps it was time for her to suggest that he move out. She knew that she had a terrible crush on him and that if he stayed in her flat much longer, she might do something that she would regret, like kiss him or invite him into her bed. The very idea of it made the heat rush into her cheeks. An image sprang unbidden to the front of her mind, of him in her bed, settled between her legs, his hair brushing the pillow around her head. She nearly gasped aloud. Instead, she whirled about to face the cabinets and employed herself in the task of making tea.

An enormous peal of thunder almost made her drop the mugs. She cried out in surprise as the lights went out.

"Damn," she exclaimed, gripping the edges of the counter as she waited for her heart to slow down a bit.

She felt for the handle of the drawer where she knew she would find at least one flashlight. Pulling it out, she switched it on and used it to find a pack of matches. Working together, they found and lit several candles and arranged them around the kitchen.

"I suppose I'll have to make tea the old-fashioned way," she sighed, rummaging around in the cabinet for the stovetop teakettle.

Lucius said nothing and just sat down at the table, frowning at the scarred wooden surface in front of him.

Several minutes later, with a mug in front of each of them, they sat across from each other, playing with the tags on the teabags, and staring with rapt attention at their own cups; carefully avoiding one another's eye. This went on until Viona had finally had enough of the tense silence.

She grabbed her cup and got up, "I'm going to watch the storm," she announced, and went to the living room, candle in one hand, tea in the other.

He watched her leave. After another moment, he sighed and got up, too.

"To hell with this," he muttered, following her into the living room.

He walked right up to where she was leaning against the window frame and removed the cup of tea from her hands.

"What-" was as far as she got before his lips descended on hers in a furious kiss. She hesitated only a moment before she kissed him back with equal fervor, her fingers pulling his hair tie free, and discarding it on the floor. He hummed with pleasure as she ran her fingers through his silky tresses. They broke apart with the next gargantuan crash of thunder.

"I've wanted this - wanted you for weeks," he confessed, running his fingers gently down the curve of her cheekbone and across her jaw.

She sighed, "Me too."

They studied each other in the soft candlelight, each hesitating for reasons of their own, but with the storm, the candles, and the days of tension, their resolve was weak. Viona laughed nervously, still playing with a lock of his hair.

"Look at us; grown adults. What are we afraid of? I want you, you want me; what else is there?"

With that, she took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom. Their coming together was another kind of dance, done to the music of sighs, lightning, thunder, and whispered instructions - _here, like that, keep going, more, oh Lucius, yes_.

His hair did fall around her like a beautiful pale curtain, hiding them together in this moment. She clung to him, her slight musician's fingernails making little shallow scratches on the soft skin of his back. She had been right about how it would feel to have him touch her everywhere - his fingers left hot tingling trails all over her skin. It overwhelmed her senses, making her feel weak and powerful at the same time. It was magical.


	10. Chapter 10

10.

When the morning light came pale and wan through the window, Viona awoke with her back against a warm, solid presence. An arm was draped over her waist, Lucius's left arm. She studied his fingers. The nails were growing back nicely, as was the skin of his fingertips that had been scraped raw and bleeding when he'd arrived on her doorstep. His palms were still soft and tender skinned, though he had developed some early calluses from working in the pub.

Her eyes traveled up his arm and alighted on the faded tattoo on his forearm. She had often wondered what would have led a haughty man like Lucius to get such a gruesome mark. Perhaps he would tell her sometime. After last night, a new intimacy had been born between them. She gazed at the clock, suddenly aware of the hour, and grasped his hand, chafing it gently to awaken him.

He groaned, "What time is it?"

"Just past 7," she yawned. "How do you feel?"

He propped his head on his arm and kissed her shoulder, "Like I could spend the day here with you."

"Would that we could," she squeezed his hand. "Can I ask you something? You can ask me something in return - quid pro quo."

"Alright. You go first, I suppose."

"Of course," she shifted to her back, so that she could see his face. "I've been curious about your tattoo - what does it mean?"

He sighed, "It's complicated. I was part of a… political organization. This was our symbol. Only a few of us received the Mark. It was supposed to be an honor."

"Supposed to be?" She reached out, intending to touch the inked skin, but he pulled away.

"Don't touch it!"

She was taken aback, "I'm sorry."

"It's just, well, the Mark is tremendously dangerous. Or it was, before we were… defeated."

"Defeated. That's an odd way to put it. Disbanded?"

"Brought to justice. We did terrible things in the name of - of this organization, for our leader. We did whatever he asked of us. We almost overthrew an entire government."

"Almost?"

"We could never have succeeded. Perhaps the only positive thing I can say for myself is that I could read the writing on the wall. Our leader went mad and lost sight of the vision. All he wanted was power, and by the end, he didn't care about anything else. I'd lost my taste for his methods after we attacked a… a government building several years ago. People were hurt, some lost their lives."

"You said you did terrible things. I can see that it pains you, so I won't ask you about those things, yet," she gently touched his hand, which had clutched a handful of blanket in a deathgrip.

He sighed and unclenched the fist he hadn't realized he'd made.

"So it's my turn to ask the question?"

"Yes, be gentle," she smiled at him coyly.

"You sing so well, why didn't you do anything with your talents except run a pub and play in a local band?"

"I tried," she laughed grimly. "I left after secondary school and traveled, first to Belfast, then across to Britain. I worked in pubs and coffee shops all over Europe. I wrote music. Volumes of it, and played it wherever I could. On street corners, if I couldn't find a venue that would book me. I even recorded a single."

"And what happened? You could be anywhere in the world. Why did I find the best singer I've ever heard in a tiny Irish fishing village?"

"Oh," she waved a hand vaguely, "lots of things happened. I ran into hard times, so I made my music just a hobby and went to school to be a nurse. Then my da got sick, so I had to come home. And the pub was mine after that. Been in the family for generations, I can't be the one to sell it. At least not yet."

"Speaking of the pub, it's waiting for us, I suppose," he stretched.

Her mouth went dry just watching the movements of his body beneath the sheets. She turned to face him.

"Well, I am the boss. We could have a bit of a lie-in just once."

From that night onward, Lucius shared her bed. In between the sleeping and the lovemaking was the pillow talk, which forged a connection between them that neither had realized had been missing in their lives. They saw one another with new eyes, and it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed the change.

Unfortunately, Kev's suspicions were only growing with each passing day. He'd been watching his friend's interactions with her mysterious tenant with a weather eye since the man had first come downstairs, and so it became almost immediately clear to him when Viona and Lucius began to treat each other differently. At first, he thought maybe they were just experiencing the normal tensions that pop up between people who live together, but now he was sure there was something else going on.

He cornered Viona as she pulled a pint, "Something is off between you and the blond git. What happened?"

Viona glanced up, "Nothing, everything's fine."

Kev's eyes narrowed, "You look different. Relaxed, not like a couple of weeks ago, when you were drawn tighter than your guitar strings. Did you sleep with him?"

She nearly overfilled the pint, stopping at the last minute with a stifled oath. When she'd passed it down to the patron who ordered it, she stared at Kev for a long moment before responding.

"I don't see that it's any of your business."

"Oh my God. You did."

"Kev -"

At that moment, Lucius and Dennis returned from the cellars with fresh stock. Before they could do anything besides set it down, Kev had rounded the bar and grabbed Lucius by the collar. He hauled back and struck the other man solidly in the face 3 times, in rapid succession, reliving in that instant the kind of brawl he had engaged in as a teenager. Viona screamed and reached for her friend's arm while Dennis tried to step between them.

Lucius, having never really been in a fist fight before, could only hold his violently bleeding nose and blink the stars from his swelling and blackening eye. He held his other hand out in a gesture of surrender, but Kev ignored it and tried to hit him again, but Dennis managed to grab him by the elbow and lever him away from his unsuspecting victim.

Viona pushed forward and stood, shaking before her friend in the suddenly silent pub. She began smacking him about the head and shoulders with wild little blows that didn't really hurt him.

"Dammit Kev, I'm a grown woman in the 20th century, and I'll sleep with whomever I choose. You're not my keeper and I'll thank you to keep your nose out!"

"But I am, Vi!" He shouted. "Or do you not remember the event that made me your keeper?"

"That is so far from relevant here," she said in a low, dangerous voice, "and how dare you bring that up now. How dare you throw that in my face!"

"It is abso-fucking-lutely relevant. That was the moment you became my responsibility. You chose me. You didn't call your da or your aunt, you called me. You were still so high, you didn't even know what year it was and I only knew you were in Spain because I could hear Spanish on the PA system, but you remembered my phone number and you called me. I was terrified but I couldn't go find you because I'd just got a job. They woulda skinned me for taking off to Spain for some ex-girlfriend who hadn't so much as dropped a postcard since she left Ireland. When I got off the phone with you, I swore that if you came back alive, I'd never leave you out on your own like that ever again."

"Kev, I'm not nineteen anymore -"

"I know, but look - you still don't know who he is, where he came from, or even his bloody last name, Vi! He's living in your house, alone with you and now you're sleeping with him! How is that not recklessly irresponsible? He could be a murderer; some charismatic psychopath waiting for the perfect moment to chop you to bits and who could I blame but myself for not saying something when I had the chance."

"That's patronizingly sweet of you, but really unnecessary," Viona said tightly.

"Oh, but it is necessary. It's a shame that you don't see; or maybe you don't want to," Kev grabbed his coat and started to leave. He looked over his shoulder before he opened the door, "There's a laundry list of questions you probably haven't asked him because you're not sure you want to know the answers. He's not going to just volunteer that information to you, and you should want to know why."

On that parting thrust, he was gone.

Viona sighed and turned to Lucius, who was still holding his bleeding nose and snuffling uncomfortably. She steered him by his elbow up the stairs, instructing Dennis to keep an eye on the pub.

She propelled him to the bathroom, where she set to mopping away the blood and prodding his nose and eye gingerly. He hissed in pain, but allowed her to explore his injuries.

"Well, the good news is, your nose isn't broken," she said, "Your eye is going to be swollen shut if we don't get a cold compress on it, though."

"Would you care to explain why your friend decided to use my face for bludger practice?"

"He's an interfering little geebag is why," she growled. "He's meddling and tiresome, and stubborn when he gets an idea in his head."

Lucius cautiously touched his nose, "I haven't received a beating like that since - well, a long time ago," he winced, "I don't miss this feeling at all."

"I'll get you an ibuprofen, and then you're going to rest."

She left him laid out on the bed with a cold compress for his eye and gauze stuffed up his nose. When she returned late that night, she found him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a grim expression on his battered face.

"I guess you know I have to ask you, now," she sighed, collapsing into a chair across from him.

"I wish you wouldn't," he replied softly.

"Easy ones first," she continued as though she hadn't heard him, "what's your last name?"

"Malfoy."

"Lucius Malfoy. Has a nice ring to it. 'Bad faith'? That's portentous."

"You have no idea," he said wryly.

"When you washed up on shore, I suspected that you'd escaped, but I don't know from where. Hospital or prison?"

"Prison."

She let out a shaky breath that she must have been holding, "Why were you in prison?"

He laughed mirthlessly, "Where do I begin? Participating in a terrorist attack, breaking into a government facility, attempted theft, assault, destruction of property," he paused and took a breath, "murder."

The kitchen was completely silent for an eternal moment. Lucius thought that perhaps, by some miracle, she hadn't heard him, and maybe everything might be alright in the end, maybe he would be allowed to forget his sordid past and start over, as he had been trying to do.

At last, Viona looked at him, "Were you ever going to tell me that?"

"How could I? What could I possibly say to mitigate that? It's impossible."

"You killed someone," she stated baldly, "No, you're right. There's no way to make it acceptable to me. Who was it?"

He stood and turned his back to her, "Does it matter?"

"Did you know them? How did you kill them? Was it only one person, or did you kill a room full of people? Did you kill your wife?"

He whirled around, his face a mask of fury, "No, I did not kill my wife! For all I know she's alive and well, no thanks to me. What does it matter if I answer any, or in fact, all of your very impertinent questions? Our relationship is forever changed because now you know a few more facts about my past. I'm still the same as I was yesterday, but you'll never look at me the way you did even 20 minutes ago."

"Don't you think I have a right to know who you are?"

"You know who I am! What if I didn't want to be the same Lucius Malfoy who did all those things?" He stared at her, wide-eyed and desperate, "The man who committed those acts is dead! I'm not him - I've changed!"

"How do I know that?" She slammed her palm on the table. "I don't really know you at all, do I?"

"But it didn't matter yesterday, did it?" He said bitterly.

"It should have, though. Kev's right about one thing; I should have asked you these questions ages ago."

"What would you have done if you knew? Throw me out? Leave me to die on the rocks like I had intended?"

"No, of course not!" She was almost yelling now. "I would have called the authorities. You should be back in prison."

He laughed, "The authorities. Naturally."

"You think this is funny? I could be jailed myself for letting you stay here. I should call them now," she rose.

Before she could even step away from the table, he had her by the wrist, "I don't think so. I'd rather die than go back there. I might as well have been dead the moment I walked through the gates."

"Let go of me!" she snarled. "If you hurt me now, they'll all know it was you as done it. You'll have nowhere to hide, there isn't another town for miles."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he sounded exasperated, "Just let me explain -"

"No! You can't explain this away, Lucius. You killed someone! And I've been - God, I started to think we -" she broke off with a strangled sob.

"Just listen to me," he tried again with exaggerated patience, "It was a war; we all killed people -"

"A war?! What war? When? You're not making any sense," she tried to tug her wrist free.

He sighed and released her, "No, I suppose you wouldn't understand."

"You're a dangerous political criminal, so no, I wouldn't. I knew you were different from the other men I'd known, but I had no idea how different," she gazed at him, her eyes filled with tears.

"Viona, I swear I won't hurt you."

He reached for her, this time intending to comfort her, but she held up a hand and stepped back.

"No, please don't. I'm too confused by this right now. Look, can you leave for a bit?"

"What?" He stared at her.

"Just for a bit. Take a walk, or something. I can't have you here right now. I need to think."

He clenched his jaw, but gave her a sharp nod. His eyes had gone utterly cold. He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door and was down the stairs and out the front door of the pub before she could say another word.


	11. Chapter 11

11.

He walked down the silent streets until he reached the church at the edge of town. He entered the gate and wandered through the small graveyard until he came to the place where the neatly maintained yard melted into the forest. He went a little ways into the forest and leaned against a tree trunk, allowing his mind to wander its own path. He stayed there, still as a statue, feeling himself almost becoming part of the tree. The sounds of the forest surrounded him like a blanket, though the air was bitterly cold. It was an oddly comforting sensation, though, and he relished the relative silence of the night until a familiar sound disturbed his peace.

Someone had apparated into the graveyard. That much he was certain of. As to who, he had no idea, but he suspected it was some kind of magical law enforcement official. He stayed where he was, knowing the moon was not nearly bright enough to penetrate the place in the forest where he was. He held his breath, eyes wide and searching for movement. _There!_

The man, definitely a wizard from his style of dress, was only a few yards away, and had emerged from behind the large statue he had used to conceal his apparition. Not that it would have mattered in the middle of the night. Lucius wanted to laugh. If only he had a weapon of some kind. He scanned the area. A broken tombstone - there were a few pieces small enough to fit neatly in his hand. Now, if the fool would turn his back… patience, he reminded himself, is a virtue.

It felt like hours before his patience was rewarded and the wizard turned to survey the town beyond the church gates. Lucius crept swiftly from the shadows and hefted a piece of the ruined tombstone. He rushed forward and paused just on the other side of the statue from his quarry. If only he had a wand… the man could have any number of anti-sneaking spells on his cloak or person. Lucius would never be able to tell until it was too late.

He took a deep breath and stepped out, lifting the stone over his head and delivering a crashing blow that should have knocked the other man out, but as he had suspected, the man had a shield charm, and a powerful one. Lucius was knocked back several feet, landing on his back.

The man fired an Incarcerus at him, but he rolled out of the way, behind another large tombstone. As the other wizard continued to fire spells in his direction, he scurried away, ducking between the ancient stones. He couldn't keep this up forever, but maybe he could trick his opponent into thinking he had won.

At the man's next Stupefy, Lucius fell limp, though the spell hit the ground a handsbreadth away from him. From half lidded eyes, he watched the feet of his opponent approach. The man used his wand to push Lucius's hair away from his face.

"Well, look at this," the man murmured. "Malfoy, someone did a number on your face, didn't they? Feeling your disadvantage without one of these, aren't you?"

He tapped the wand against his cheek and Lucius fought the urge to flinch. The man sat on the grass next to him and rummaged through a Muggle style messenger bag he was carrying.

"Let's see," he mused. "I have it in here somewhere. A portkey. Straight back to Azkaban you go. It'll be like you never left."

At that, Lucius went cold all over. He had to get that wand or die trying. He tensed and sprang, grabbing the other man's wand arm in a vice grip. His arms, which had been strengthened by weeks of work toting kegs, sweeping floors, and washing countless pint glasses, were strong enough to hold his opponent relatively at bay. They struggled, rolling in the grass like lads wrestling for control of the wand.

The other man fired off several spells, but none reached their mark; Lucius was quick to dodge. He kept a firm grasp on the man's arm, but he allowed his hand to slide down to the other man's hand, working the man's fingers free of the wand. The moment he could feel the wood of it under his own index finger, he tried a nonverbal spell.

To the immense surprise of both men, he was able to fire off sparks from the other man's wand. Their eyes met. The other wizard goggled at him, and Lucius smiled triumphantly. The man redoubled his efforts, trying to work free of Lucius's tenacious hold, but it was all for naught. The shock of finding that his wand, for whatever reason, was willing to obey a known Death Eater was too mind-boggling for the other man to process while in the midst of a physical battle. Lucius managed to wrench the wand free from his grasp and launched a Stupify at his opponent.

As the spell hit the man squarely in the chest, Lucius sighed in relief. He reached for the messenger bag and saw an magical law enforcement scroll just inside. Unrolling it, he studied its contents for a moment. Apparently, they had become quite frustrated at their inability to find him and had set a bounty on his head - that he be returned alive to Azkaban for the nominal fee of a thousand Galleons. He snorted at the paltry sum. He'd had sets of robes more costly than that.

He picked through the rest of the man's belongings, selecting a few items that would be useful to him in the future, and then Renervated the man. The hapless sod only had time to draw a breath and blink once before Lucius cast an Obliviate and a rather tricky memory charm. This handy bit of spellwork would send the bounty hunter on a wild goose chase to South America believing that he was a botanist searching for new plant species. It would be at least a month before he remembered who he really was.

After pointing the man in the direction of the bus station, he burned the law enforcement scroll and made his way to the waterfront, where he blasted the portkey into the sea. Now, for his most difficult task.

When Lucius left, Viona collapsed back into her seat and cried for what felt like hours, but was in reality only 20 minutes. Refusing to continue to sit there feeling sorry for herself, she washed her face and went to bed, leaving the flat door unlocked. After a good night's sleep, she hoped to be able to think more clearly. She tossed and turned for another half hour before her exhaustion forced her unwilling body to submit to sleep.

She came awake suddenly at the sound of the flat door closing. Sitting up, she looked around, but the room was still dark, and she couldn't hear him moving about in the bathroom or the loo.

"Lucius? Where are you?" She got out of bed, wrapping herself snugly in her robe.

She moved into the hallway and down to the second bedroom. The bed was made and the wardrobe door was partially open. She gasped and turned on the bedside lamp. The wardrobe was empty. All the clothes Kev had given to Lucius, and the backpack they had been toted in, were gone. Viona sat down on the bed and saw that there was a note on the nightstand. She picked it up and opened it.

 _Dearest Viona,_

 _It is with deepest regrets that I leave you, but I cannot see another way. You are a law-abiding individual, and I know you would not be able to let me remain here without submitting to your conscience and reporting my presence to the police. While I am certain you would find no one within any of your law enforcement agencies who know of me, They will find me, nonetheless. In fact, I know They are already looking for me, and my remaining here will put you and your friends, and all of the lovely patrons of your establishment, in grave danger._

 _I never intended to harm you, and I would never do so willingly. You must believe that I bear you and yours no ill will - not even Kev, though I would repay him for my nose, which still aches. The crimes of my past are many and varied. I was a fanatic, obsessed with a vision of the kind of society we could create. I saw nothing else, everything I did seemed reasonable in the face of the greater good that I believed I was bringing about._

 _My beliefs were shaken for the first time after I was sent to prison for breaking into a government facility. Our leader, who had already gone mad with power, sent my own son on a suicide mission. When I learned of it, helpless as I was in a cell far away, I wondered what kind of world I was building for him and whether the vision was still worthwhile if he died in its realization._

 _When I escaped, I intended to die. My survival here was an unexpected - and unwanted - occurrence, but once I had accepted it, I was determined to make a fresh start. It was not my aim to deceive you about my past, I simply wanted to forget it altogether. You brought me into your life with such unquestioning acceptance, I could not help but try my hardest to be the kind of man deserving of your trust._

 _Now, the future I dreamed of having here is destined to be nothing but a fantasy. For the time being, my goal will be survival, but my memories of these short months will keep me warm. My days - and nights - with you have been the happiest I've had in nearly a decade, and I will cherish them for the rest of my life. Once I am safe I will do all in my power to repay you for your kindness. You have become most precious to me._

 _Yours forevermore,_

 _Lucius_

The tears blurred the letters on the page and before she could stop them, a few drops fell to the paper. She let the page flutter to the floor from her nerveless fingers and she wept great heaving sobs. Knowing that he had probably done the right thing did nothing for the sudden aching hollowness in her chest.

In that moment, she didn't care about what he had done in the past; she just wanted him back, wanted to feel his arm around her waist when she awoke, wanted to kiss him and tell him it didn't matter, he could stay with her as long as he liked. She curled up on the bed, burying her face in the pillow that still smelled vaguely of him, and cried until sleep mercifully wrapped her in its dark and fuzzy oblivion.


	12. Epilogue

FIVE YEARS LATER

Viona awoke a minute before the alarm, as usual, but this time, she felt like she had been awakened by a sound in the kitchen. She reached a hand out from her warm blankets and turned the alarm off at its first shrill beep. Disentangling herself from the bed, and donning her robe, she crept cautiously into the kitchen to investigate. The doors had been locked, and the flat wasn't on the ground floor, so any intruder would have to be some kind of climber to get in, and even then, the windows were always locked.

Having reminded herself of all these facts several times, she poked her head into the kitchen and saw no intruder, only a curious box with an envelope taped to the top of it. She approached with caution, as though she expected something to leap from the box. Nothing happened, so she reached out and removed the envelope.

The paper was strangely thick, like good quality cardstock, and the excellent penmanship of her name written on the envelope looked like it had been made with a fountain pen. She opened it and drew out the letter inside.

 _Dear Ms. O'Shea,_

 _I am acting on behalf of my father, Lucius Malfoy, who was captured by our authorities several days ago on the west coast of Scotland attempting to buy passage to Ireland on a fishing boat. He is deathly ill and not expected to live much longer, so I have been entrusted with carrying out his last wishes._

 _He has informed me that you cared for him upon his escape from prison, and he was most insistent that I send you some form of compensation, both for your own kindness and that of the citizens of your village. In his delirium, he has spoken of little else. His experiences with you must have been extremely significant to him._

 _He also insisted that I include the vinyl record that you will find enclosed in the package. He said that it took him a long time to find, and he has not had the means to listen to it, but he hoped that you would appreciate it, as he was unable to remember whether you already had it in your collection._

 _For myself, I thank you for whatever it was you did for him. He is vastly changed from the man I knew five years past, and I regret that we will not have long to reacquaint ourselves. Please consider the contents of the attached package a gift from both my father and myself._

 _With Utmost Gratitude,_

 _Draco Malfoy_

Viona stared at the letter, rereading it several times before reaching for the box and opening it. She gasped. It was filled with cash to the brim. She collapsed in a chair and gaped at the overflowing box. Picking up the letter again, she read it yet another time, and began digging through the stacks of cash. There was supposed to be a record in here. Where was it?

She began removing the stacks, setting them on the table. She had to go all the way to the bottom of the box when she spotted it. She could only see part of the cover, but it was vaguely familiar. It took a bit of maneuvering to remove it from the box without tossing out the rest of the cash. She was glad she was sitting down when she saw it.

Many years ago, when she had moved to London from Belfast, she'd recorded a single. Side A was an original song, and side B was a cover of a popular song. Coincidentally, it had been the same song that she and Lucius had danced to on Valentine's Day five years ago. She couldn't imagine how he had located a copy of her one and only single. They had printed only a handful of copies, which had been given away at one of her gigs.

She stared at the title of the song, the letters blurring as her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh Lucius, you idiot," she whispered.

The sobs came suddenly, and though she tried, she couldn't suppress them. She clapped a hand over her mouth and curled in on herself, shaking with grief that was as fresh as it had been the night he left. A little hand touched her knee. She looked down into a pair of worried grey eyes.

"Mummy, are you hurt? Why're you crying?"

She ran her hand through his messy blonde hair and lifted him onto her lap.

"Oh my angel, mummy's not hurt, I'm just sad," she said, hugging him tight. "Everything's alright. Everything will be fine."

FIN.


End file.
